Epic US Ride - "Western Expansion" - Summer 2012

So it has been nearly a year since I left on my epic US ride, and I need to get this on paper before I start forgetting the minor details and whatnot. Also, I feel that it's important I share my experience on here because many fellow inmates played a role. Whether that role involved becoming a friendly acquaintance, offering hospitality, or saving my @$$ in troubled times, I have to start this off by extending my deep appreciation for this website and the folks on it.



I bought the R100RT about a year ago this April (of 2013). It was the reward of a year's worth of savings. The airhead was on the market for a decent price, and it was all that I could really afford anyway. The mileage (and perhaps a few other issues) put it right in my price range.

It turned out to be a serendipitous purchase, as the motorcycle proved to be not only a faithful horse (considering I didn't service it before leaving) but a stout symbol of self-sufficiency, durability, and ultimately freedom. A complete match in spirit to my ideals of 'being on the road'.

Upon getting the bike, I spent a few weeks riding around, enjoying the warm days that pepper early spring in Maryland. However, I knew that it was high time to start looking over the machine. I still had no idea whether it was ready for a cross-country trip. I figured a month would be enough time to evaluate the bike before my tentative departure in mid-May.

Of course, fate has a funny way of disrupting plans.




One rainy low-side later and my dream is crushed. A local motorcycle shop charges me $200 to basically tell me they wont work on the bike. Worst yet, I did not have the space, tools or knowledge to do the necessary work - install a new front end - myself. In a moment, a year's worth of effort and dreams were in ashes.

In my despair I put up a thread on this website asking for advice. Low and behold, there is light at the end of the tunnel. A helpful inmate gives me the critical information: a nearby independent mechanic willing to work with used parts. In the course of a day my shattered dream turned into a vision again.

Here I am leaving from my Maryland headquarters (my parent's house at the time). Despite my smile and confident appearance, I'm a nervous wreck. The bike had just returned from the shop with a new front end. The mechanic took it for a ride and described it as "a solid bike". Despite that, the bike is lacking the thorough inspection I wanted to give it, and Im about three weeks late of my original departure plans.

The plan was to get as much of America as I could fit into a summer. I had always been interested in visiting the Northwest, so getting that far was a major goal, but of course I wanted to see more than that. I planned a convoluted route into the deep south, which would then cut across Texas to Southern California, then directly up the coast to Oregon. From there my plans grew fuzzy. I would return along the Northern route, perhaps hitting Canada, but I also entertained the idea of finding somewhere to settle in the northwest. I really knew nothing about the place other than "it was pretty". I was at a stage in life where I needed a change though, even if that meant jumping into the unknown.

I had no idea how long the trip was going to take, but the last thing I wanted to do was rush through it. I had grand plans to spend as much time as possible camping, hiking, and meeting new people. Im also very interested in sustainable farming, so I made plans to work on a family farm in Oregon. In addition to learning new skills, being settled for a few weeks would give me a chance to perhaps figure out a more permanent job and settle somewhere.

Now, three weeks after my planned departure, I stared at my bike and turned the critical decision over in my head. Staying at home and looking over the bike would obviously be the safer choice, but I had no idea what its machine guts would reveal when exposed. Based on my prior experience with repairing craigslist bikes, I could easily take the bike apart in a day and not have it put back together for several months. Just imagining a summer spent in the parent's garage was profoundly depressing. The summer to come was The Perfect Opportunity to Escape. I didn't have a serious career, plans for school, or even a lease (all the result of careful planning, and of course some coordination with the parents). Most of all, I just needed to leave, more than anything else.

I could give in to my inner desires and split town for the road. It would be a gamble, no doubt. I had suffered breakdowns in remote
areas before, and I understood how much they can hurt.

As an older friend who heard my story put it - I was "young, dumb, and full of cum", but something inside of me was shouting for the road. So I decided to leave, and let fate carry me to where I was to go.



I find it interesting how the universe operates in such a way that when we need time the most, it accelerates. After hastily slapping my gear together, having a nebulous idea of what I was going to need (not a very experienced camper I was), I managed to get out just in time to meet rush hour on the DC beltway en route to the mountains. To make things worse, my odometer quit on me about a half mile from my house. It seemed like an omen of events to come.

Being the meticulous student-type I was, I had taken the time to plan out a route that would coincide with free/cheap campsites across the country. Thanks to a late departure and sluggish traffic, I was nowhere near my planned destination when the sun was setting. Visions of myself searching for a primitive campground in the mountains at night begin to occupy my thoughts. It took my bike hitting its reserve fuel to break that negative concentration and replace it with a more frantic "Oh Shit" demeanor. Being pretty far out by now, it took yet even more time to locate a gas station.

I stood there filling my tank, watching the sun dip into the horizon. The "Oh Shit" attitude has now dialed back to a more calm acceptance of a night spent on the side of the road, hoping drunk motorists didn't crash into the bike. Not knowing what I was going to do, I decided to ask a local how far he thought my target campground would be:

"About an hour, but why are you heading all the way out there? Elizabeth's Furnace has a free, primitive campground, and its right around the corner!"

It was a lucky break; a first of many on this trip.

Of course, the universe must always strike a balance. On my way to the campground, I made the mistake of turning down a dirt road for the Group section of the campground complex. These large group facilities usually are rented out, and of course it was closed that weekend. So I found this out by the closed gate that blocked the road. Now, imagine for a second, your travelling down a slope on a gravel road; the road isnt wide enough to turn a bike around, and there are shallow ditches on either side, with large boulders just on the outside of them. Shifting the bike into "reverse" is not an option. If you get off the bike to push it up the hill or park it, the bike continues to skid down the hill thanks to a lack of friction. Also due to the lack of friction, the brakes are useless; the wheels slide where ever they want.

Ill sum it up by saying in the 30 minutes it took me to turn that bike around I brought my body to the brink of its physical capacity. Even now, I can barely remember how I did it.

10 minutes later the sun has completely set, and Im at the campground. Now at least I can sleep...

That night, I discovered how cold hammock camping can be, and how critical a sleeping bag is while camping in the mountains. Maybe a more experienced, or just more reasonable person would have retreated the 2.5 hours back home to make room for the item that just didn't fit, but I had a schedule to keep. I had arranged to work at a farm over the summer in exchange for room and board, and was already going to be late getting there. So on I rode, into the deep blue mountains.



This is really where the trip begins for me.




Rt. 42 is beautiful, leisurely road cutting through Virginia.



Why do we so often associate adventure with different continents, when it is so easily found in the backyard?









Of course routes 42 and 18 had better shots to offer along the sections you cant stop.

It didnt matter though. I was out there. I was on my own. My vision was now a reality, and it startled me.

If I broke down, I couldnt call a friend for help. I didnt even have cell phone reception. Being a city/suburbs person, these realizations invoked a surreal feeling unlike any I had ever experienced.



Overlooking New Castle, VA



I think I was the most exciting thing these cows in Bland, VA had seen for a while.





I decided to divert from the google maps directions when I noticed the map offered what seemed like a more simple, direct highway.



I realized that 2D maps don't reveal much about topographical information (i.e. mountains). What can appear to be a straight shot on a map can actually be an extended detour of intense mountain driving. In the photo above, I am at the entrance of Grayson Highlands State Park. It wasn't much fun getting there on a fully-packed bike with touring tires. I felt like I was fish tailing the entire time on those wet, gravelly mountain roads. I was a little freaked out, especially after my recent low-side in the rain.

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*Disclaimer* Many of the pictures from this part of the trip were lost/destroyed. Sorry in advance.

After the Grayson Highlands ordeal, I managed to take the wrong rt. 133 into North Carolina (a mistake on my part, not noticing the directions specified TN-133, not NC-133). It proved to be a not-so-fun detour, with only rain, fog, trucks, and mountains covered in uniform, homogenous tree farms. Not the most appealing place to get lost.

Getting back on track, I found myself climbing and descending yet another mountain. After the nauseatingly repetitive sucession of twisties (and a close encounter with some slippery gravel) I was dumped into a quaint little trail town, and proceeded into Tennessee.

For a moment the ride is great. The skies clear up and I cruise through a beautiful valley. I then turn on 421, ignorant yet again of the fun ahead of me.

After braving what was probably the most extensive set of mountain twisties that day, I finally neared the campground I had planned for. At this point, ditching the map and improvising might have been a smart choice, but, yet again, the meticulous student in me is stubborn to change.

A wrong turn down some gravel roads leads me an hour off course (gotta love those ambiguous park road signs ), but eventually I find my way here:



I pull into the campground knowing I had little time to enjoy the scenery. For the past few hours, whilst I was tumbling down mountains and exploring Tennessee's remote dirt roads, the clouds had taken on an angry grey appearance. Of course, as soon as I park, the rain begins to pour. Stupefied from the exhausting day, I could only stare at my unpacked bike beginning to soak in the downpour. I couldnt decide whether it was "luck" that the rain had the courtesy to wait for the minute I arrived.

Thankfully, a neighbor waved me over to his tent gazebo, tossed me a beer, and fired up the grill. My first taste of camper hospitality.

I woke up the following day a bit moist, but rested and rejuvenated nonetheless. By the time I got to Bristol, the sun was shining and I ventured on into beautiful Tennessee.



The country roads are leisurely and, at times, twisty and fun. Everyone waves as I pass.



The view of Frozen Head from the Highway. Local prison in the foreground.



Again, a cold night in the hammock makes sleep difficult. The night was blacker than any I had ever experienced (I couldnt see my hand in front of my own face). A pack of coyotes on the other side of the hill started to yelp around 5a.m. They were unsettling to hear while hanging from a hammock in the pitch black.

Just outside of Nashville I encounter my first technical issue - a squawking starter motor (a sign its about to bite the dust). I had lodging arrangements in Nashville, and it would be my best opportunity to fix the problem before heading further South.

Arriving into town, I found my host's place and hit the BMW anonymous book immediately. I was lucky enough to find a fellow inmate, BmwBlake, who has spare starter in the garage.

Blake and I had a great time trying to change the starter out. We spent nearly 45 minutes attempting to remove a particularly inaccessible bolt. I HAD a great photo of Blake grinding a wrench down in his drive way. I'm sorry to say that pic was lost with the phone that was later stolen.

I rode away from Blake's house in the cool Tennessee air feeling like a million bucks. I spent the rest of the night cruising in the warm southern air and getting beers with my host - an excellent fellow who was more than happy to share his collection of fine tequila.



The booze, warm bed, and lack of howling animals led to a great night of sleep. I hopped on the Natchez Trace the following morning ready to ride.



I really enjoyed the Natchez Trace. It wasn't the most fun road to ride, but the pleasant agrarian landscape, and public rest stops made it an ideal route to cover some ground. No map necessary.



An old southern gent asked where I was from. "Maryland", I said. His response: "Oh, I heard you can't get grits up there".



Mississippi redefined my concept of what 'high' humidity is.



Moss hung from the trees in a damp forest.

HA! HA! Must be why I was almost run off the road twice by SUVs not shortly after I passed this sign.



East Texas sure is pretty though.
















I encountered quite a few of these ghost towns on my way out West. A sobering depiction of life out in a tough environment.



I really liked Austin. I had to spend an extra day there to get a new rear tire. The BMW dealership was quite accommodating and friendly, despite having to squeeze me in the schedule. One can meet alot of interesting folks in the waiting area of a motorcycle dealership...

I saw more ladies on bikes in Austin than anywhere Ive ever been



To The WEST!



Into the Hills!



Errr a long day ahead of me.



And the road goes on!



and on!



and on...



I think for a strench of maybe 200 miles I only saw trucks. Trucks that nearly blew my bike off the road everytime they drove by on the otherside of the highway. I became accustomed to tucking in to minimize my surface area.



And eventually I get to a rather cool part of Texas. Now Im really out there!



The oil wells extend as far as the eye can see. The air smells like crude oil.



I shudder to think of how I would handle a break down in this part of the country.

I think about how it would be to live in a town with only 50 people for 50 miles around.

And I think about how tired I am after 8 hours of riding and getting blown around by trucks.

The sun lowers and a grey haze develops over the barren landscape. Far off into the horizon a oil well flames aways and heat lightning strikes down from the sky.

It is a wasteland, but it is beautiful in its own way.



And I arrive at this captivating gem not a moment too soon.



Monahans Sandhills is truly a 'diamond in the rough'.

Loving your report and thoughts about the lands you crossed. Keep it coming.

I'm in!

In............Keep it coming.................

Fred

Despite being sore and wind-blown from the previous day's trek, a quiet night spent in the wind-swept dunes recharges my spirit for the day ahead. The desert is surely a place to clear one's mind.



At this point the only logical route out of Texas was the interstate. I had thus far avoided the interstate due to the reports of riders being blown around by trucks and bored silly by the monotony. While the interstate did lack interesting scenery, I found it to be much less windy than the Farm-to-Market, two-lane country highways. A highway median to keep the trucks far away is a beautiful thing.




Pecos would be my last stop in Texas. I had traveled so far over such a vast array of unique landscapes that it was hard to believe I was about to finally leave the state.

On my way out of town, I realized I had yet to have any authentic Texas BBQ. Within sight of the New Mexico border, I turn around to the road-side smokey shack I had noticed back in town.

Prior to this trip I was a pescetarian (vegetarian with fish). I decided to forgo the diet on the trip for many reasons. Not having had barbeque in quite a few years, I have to say - it was pretty dang good!

Hello New Mexico!



If the Texas landscape was a little dull, New Mexico surely made up for it, right from the get-go!



The desert is vast, barren, and scarred with deep ravines (poorly depicted above). Its a landscape unlike any I have ever seen.



Hold the phone...



Huh?



In a matter of mere hours the world changes.

The view from Cloudcroft overlooking Alamogordo and White Sands.



Cloudcroft is a neat town. I know the name of my destination campsite, but Im not sure how to get there. I decide to stop for a beer.

A $5 beer is a bargain when you consider the value of directions from a local



And off I go, into the "bush" once again.



Ive become friendly with dirt/gravel roads by this point. Being rather inexperienced with off-road riding, I found them to be rather unsettling at first (recall my incident in the first post). However, after a few drops, I learned to work with the dirt as opposed to fighting it.



The rewards of chasing a dirt road are good enough incentive themselves. They can lead to magical places.



Bluff Springs was on of the most gorgeous campsites on my trip. Go to it.



My own little slice of paradise. A cool mountain stream runs next to my tent.



What 9000 ft does to your peanut butter (ps. If you camp here bring a sleeping bag For crying out loud, dont be a n00b like me, completely spoiled from humid Maryland summers, and not have an idea of mountain camping. I slept that night with as much clothing as I could fit on my body including all of my rain gear. )



I spent the night sharing brews with a hospitable neighbor and conversing under the stars. The next morning was frosty, and I was concerned about starting the bike. To my relief, she fired right up.



The mountains support a lush pine forest. I cruise down a steep pass, surveying the forest in its vast, saturated greenness. A scent, unlike any I have ever experienced fills my nose. It resembles smokey gin. Ahead, the view is blocked by a stout mountain. A momentary plunge into a dark tunnel leads to a bare, rocky canyon and the swath of barren desert below.



New Mexico was one of my favorite states on this trip. The dramatic changes in the landscape mirrored the beginnings of a transformation within myself.

Alamogordo and White Sands are sizzling hot, but the flowing air at 70 mph keeps me cool. The straight, flat road through empty desert is surrounded by a mountain panorama; they loom ahead like ancient guardians of the earth. They part to allow my passage to Las Cruces.

Time for gas. A motorcyclist filling up next to me strikes up a conversation. I mention an interest in agriculture and he offers to lead me out of town through the chili and pecan fields. We ride to a point, part ways, and yet again I leave the vicinity of the interstate and cities for locations more remote.



The roads snake through rocky outcrops and canyons. One turn reveals a border patrol check point down the road. Totally unfamiliar with these, I'm not sure what to expect:

*slows down bike, stops*

BP officer: "Hello sir!"
Me: "Hello..."
BP officer: "Are you a citizen of the United States sir?"
Me: "Uhhh yea? Yes, I am."
BP officer: "Have a nice day"

The guy was maybe a few years older than me, seemed like he was bored silly. I had a chuckle about it.



I was happy to find this lonely gas station when I did. I knew that the petrol pickin's were gonna be slim from here on out. Being the diligent, prepared type that I am (Oh man what happened...), I did some research ahead of time and knew there would be another station within fuel-range.

Realizing the upcoming route would be the last major stretch of "nothing" on my trip, I braced myself. The bike had performed great since I had left home without looking it over. "Just wait till we get to the coast and I promise I will change your fluids, tune you up, and sing to you. You can even break down if you want to, just not here, in the middle of nowhere"

152 begins long and flat; mountains loom in the distance. The road begins to climb and climb until, suddenly, it rides the edge of a cliff. Some of the best scenery on this trip yet. No place to stop for pictures unfortunately.

A lone steer along the road.


I'm concerned about gas by this point, so I pull off to the side of the road to check the map and estimate mileage (sucks to not have a working odometer). The shoulder is a bit more tilted than had been apparent, and the bike takes a spill. I regain my footing and look in horror at the gas dripping from the carbs. The leaking fuel provided all the adrenaline I needed in that moment.



I had been told by a park ranger that a small town along the way would have a gas station. There was indeed a station, but it was disappointing to find it closed, for several years judging by the look of it. All of the local businesses seemed to be closed down. I turned on my fuel-reserve and kept riding.

Grey clouds start to form above. The guy I met in Las Cruces gave me a brief local meteorology lesson: "The warm moist air moves over the desert, rises in the mountains, cools, and precipitates." Another rainy ride in the mountains.

Almost slipped on one of these things. Wet metal is basically ice for tires. Shook me up. Lesson learned.



Thankfully, the rain was brief, and the country was beautiful.



Again, the smokey gin scent of the pine forest.

The beauty distracted me from any concerns about gas. I was iffy on whether I could make it back out of the mountains to my next destination, Silver City. It didn't matter though; this land was magical, and I was going to enjoy it.



The terrain becomes mountainous yet again, providing some of the most beautiful landscapes I had ever seen.





Being an east coaster, I had never experienced the benefits of geothermal activity. These hot springs were the perfect end to a day's ride.

Right on !

A solo ride into western desolation. Who doesn't love that?

Keep it coming.

The hot springs were perfect. Stress, anxiety, and tension dissipate into those magical waters.

A little community was sheltered in these mountains, and from speaking to its inhabitants I discovered there was gas station well within my range. Now I really had no reason to worry.

I spoke to a fellow who told me about his adventuring days on a 1980's Kawasaki KZ440 (my first bike). Apparently, he would tie handkerchiefs to the handle bars so that he could lean back on the sissy bar and "rein in the bike like a horsey". He then mentioned his almost fatal accident. Somehow it all made sense...

Another motorcycle enthusiast joins the chat. He works as an arborist - a very important job in these parts due to the danger posed by wild fires. A man of rugged self-sufficiency, he gives me a personal tour of his homestead which he and his wife masterfully constructed.

An old Motoguzzi sits in the car port. Im then surprised to find a beautifully customized La Mans in the workshop. A truly one-of-kind bike, he explained how the gorgeous specimen fell into his lap by chance. After kindly putting a gallon or two of gas in my tank from his own supply ("Not that crap up the hill" he says), I bid him a grateful farewell.


Ruins by the hot springs.





I was standing on a colony of fire ants as I took this picture (unknowingly). I managed to scramble away and brush them off before I was seriously bitten. After having a few fire ants squat in my jacket in Texas, I wasn't keen on getting bit again.


The picture doesn't do this landscape justice. This valley held a primal, sacred beauty. The river snaked through and emanating a lushness distinct from the surrounding arid habitat. Had I found the Garden of Eden?







Hello Arizona!





Apache/Sitgreaves Nat. Forest



The aftermath of the fires that raged through.

Those highland valleys in New Mexico left a certain euphoria that boosted my confidence to a new level. I no longer needed a map, a plan, or a destination. I was a true traveler, a master of the impromptu, an explorer of the unknown...

Of course, sometimes we need to be knocked down a notch.



I had been doing quite well finding camping spots to crash and save money. I had very limited funds for this trip, so it was a critical strategy. Thanks to overshooting my original destination campground, largely due to my romantic self-image, I found myself in a motel in Springerville. Luckily, there were a few traveling cyclists at the nearby coffee shop, and I had nice night of conversation and route advice.

Flagstaff bound, I was!



Welcome to Arizona.





Sedona valley was gorgeous, if not a little crowded. Despite my smile Im a bit frazzled from the sluggish traffic through the valley.



I found my friend in Flagstaff and got the tour of the town . I found it to be a fun, eclectic city. I can enjoy any place with good beer and classic bikes (there were plenty of airheads rolling around ).



We toured the valley, and found a river oasis to swim in.



Knowing a local who can take you to the secret spots - priceless

Getting some R&R in Flagstaff prepared me to cross the Mojave into California. A feeling of deep excitement began to bubble inside of me. I had a lot of self-doubt at the beginning of the trip, and traversing the barren nothing to reach the West Coast would be an accomplishment. There were many BMW shops in SoCal, and I would soon have access to parts (I didn't even set the valves before I left, I had no idea what I would find upon doing some basic maintenance). I was going to stay with family, and I would have access to a garage for looking over the bike. Also, there was going to be a pool. I was pumped.





I took 89 to cut down south towards southern California. Lots of fun twists coming out of Prescott.










The highway opened up to the desert far below.



The nerd in me was dancing at the sight of the unique desert flora. At times I felt I was cruising through a landscape created by Dr. Seuss himself.



Only one way to go...





Up until now, the desert wasn't so much hot as it was dry. The bitter heat of I-10 was an exception to this; it felt like I was riding in the path of a giant blow-dryer.



Aside from the barren desert, I-10 features a 60-80 mile stretch where motorists are not allowed to stop due to a max-security prison. My mind wanders to thinking about the possibility of my craigslist bike breaking down. I swallow the thought and keep riding.

Eventually, no-mans land ends and I pull off to a highway gas station. I had been coating my nostrils with petroleum jelly to remedy the hot-dry air, but that did not prevent the gushing of blood from my nose that ensued as soon as I took my helmet off.

After using a tree's worth of paper towels from the gas station bathroom, my nose stops bleeding and I travel just a few more miles down the highway to my destination.



A turn off the highway and I head into a break in the mountains.

Joshua Tree National Park










Sometimes an 8 hour ride through the desert is worth it...

Keep it coming. Just ain't nuttin like the west to go get lost on a motorcycle. Then on an airhead .